you can go back home

“F is for Fishing Hole”

There’s a rock, a
slab really, placed there
by hands of ice
eons ago.
It’s worn, rough
and smooth, warm
and chilled, glints
of mica.
Reeds sway, protecting
melodic chirps in
simple refrain, both
remembered.
Vapor waves in still
dawning air, soft
plops of fins
and wings.
Through eyes of youth, I
gaze, my hands, now
gnarled and pained, grasp
bamboo and pail.
I whisper softly, I’m
home my friends; did you miss
me here? At the ol’
fishing hole?

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